The Vast Indifference of the Sky
by blueheronz
Summary: Adventure. Suspense. Romance. The reemergence of House's shooter, Moriarty, has House on the go, with Cameron as his sidekick. House and Cameron.
1. Sleepless

**Disclaimer: I own a house. I own "House" on dvd. I like the movie, "My Life as a House." But, I don't claim to hold a monopoly on the show or its characters. They belong to Fox.**

**This is my first FanFic. It's the first chapter in what I hope will be a longer story. Please forgive the heavy-handed references to the work of Camus. I hope to raise the smut/romance factor once I get the hang of the genre. I appreciate reviews, especially those with specific likes/dislikes. Please help me to stay IC. Thanks to my beta, Timbereads, for her careful readings. Thanks to Houseketeer for the high quality of her writing. It inspires me. Enjoy.****  
**

_**The Vast Indifference of the Sky**_

_Cameron can't sleep. Tossing and turning in her bed, with only some deep thoughts and the radio as company, she learns that a blizzard is imminent. Ever conscientious, she hightails it in to work. Once there, she finds that House requires her to go with him to the home of a patient in rural New Jersey. House and Cameron are caught breaking and entering. What happens when the two doctors are arrested and thrust into the back of a police cruiser that crashes? How will they get out of the patrol car to help the injured officer? What will they do while waiting for help to arrive?  
_

Cameron rolled over in bed and squinted at the red glow of her alarm clock. It was three a.m. and she was _still awake. _

If she were a doctor, she'd diagnose herself:

"You have ... drum roll ... insomnia."

Oh yeah, she _was_ a doctor.

It was bad enough that she had no social life. No social life unless she counted the sarcastic repartee tossed around among members of Princeton Plainsboro's diagnostic team as quality conversation.

She didn't.

Or those stimulating exchanges with her clinic patients:

"Do you wear sunscreen? No? Might want to start. Do you take a multivitamin? That's good, but you might want to up your calcium intake to 800 mg. and start eating more salmon. Hmm. I see you take Serzone. Has your general practitioner tested your liver lately? No? I'll call the lab and have them set up a liver tox screen. Meanwhile, please avoid grapefruit juice."

Just thinking about it made Cameron yawn. But it didn't make her somnolent.

True, when the team was working a case with House, it was an adrenaline rush on the scale of climbing Mt. Everest. It definitely beat dinner and a movie. But sometimes a week or more went by without a patient -- or at least a patient intriguing enough to interest the perennially bored House.

Whatever the case, the hours were long. Cuddy expected Chase, Foreman and Cameron herself to pack in clinic hours when they weren't diagnosing and treating House's patients. And House expected them to be around in case he needed their help, or in case he felt like abusing them.

So Cameron had no social life. And now she had insomnia.

The sleeplessness was her own fault, really. Cameron had found just enough time after work to run three miles on her treadmill, shower, hop into bed and flick on CNN.

This was her first mistake. More civilian casualties in Iraq. More genocide in Darfur. More car bombs in Palestine. More dead in O-hi-o, she thought with a bitter little laugh. No sleep for Dr. Cameron.

She killed the boob tube with the remote, and, like an idiot, switched on the local National Public Radio station. "Am I a glutton for punishment, or what?" Allison said out loud. Christ. Now she was _talking to herself_.

The BBC World Report announcers rehashed the horrors of the day in clipped, British accents. God, Cameron thought. What would the news be like if House reported it? Nailing an upper crust English accent in the vein of Bertie Wooster, Cameron amused herself by satirizing the news:

"Tony Blair planted a big wet one on George Bush's ass today, showing ample support for Bush's pro-democracy stance in Iraq. 'I can state most emphatically that Mr. Bush is not a weeny, and that his upper lip is actually rather stiff in accordance with British tradition,' stated the Prime Minister as he puckered up." Cameron giggled. "Pope Benedict vowed to decapitate all gay priests and stack their heads outside of Rome in a symbolic, Old Testament gesture. 'This act will deter homosexuals from serving God,' the Pope said."

The fact that she was having fun didn't ease a lingering loneliness. It would be more fun to share it with someone else. Specifically, House. She grew silent, pensive. And then her sense of humor returned, sort of. "There's nothing like a little existential literature to cheer a girl up," she said, sitting up in bed.

Reaching for her copy of "The Plague" from her bed stand, Cameron flipped through it. The book reminded her so much of House, of his pathos. When faced with the rat-borne pestilence, and almost certain death, the citizens of Oran coped, or failed to cope, with their psychic pain. Like House, they were damaged. Wounded. And each day, they ate their Rueben sandwiches and watched their soap operas. Some even tried to save lives.

One of her favorite passages in the book explained the emptiness and lack of real hope she observed in House, his reluctance to move forward in his life, and his tendency to stay mired in the past:

"**It was undoubtedly the feeling of exile - that sensation of a void within which never left us, that irrational longing to hark back to the past or else to speed up the march of time, and those keen shafts of memory that stung like fire...each of us had to be content to live only for the day, alone under the vast indifference of the sky."**

So much of what Camus wrote fit House, she thought. She wondered what Wilson would think of her theory. She _knew_ what House would say about it. He'd view it with the same disdain he'd showed her when, on their date, she'd applied Freudian analysis to explain his childish behavior toward her, to explain why she knew that he "liked" her.

Turning over on her side, Cameron reflected on her life before med school and marriage, before the death of her husband, before her internship at Mayo, before the job at Princeton Plainsboro. Her life before House. What life before House? Most days, House was her life.

Sure, she had packed a lot into her 28 years. She'd worked hard to become the person she was, the doctor she was. She'd chosen to marry young -- it had seemed like such an affirmation of life itself to love and marry a man, even if he was terminal. Cameron had convinced herself that it was an act of courage, and yes, dammit, she had seen the Julia Roberts movie 'Dying Young.'

But whenever she was around House, her blood sang in her veins. She was wide awake and constantly aware of all stimuli, especially when House was near her in physical proximity. Or when he held her with the blue glaze of his eyes. One look could force the air from her lungs and the blood to her crotch. One look could make the pit of her stomach flutter.

Shit. This line of thought would not help her sleep.

Her breaths grew shorter just thinking of House peering over her shoulder at the result of a lab test. She could feel the heat from his body as it lingered near her own, his breath warming the crown of her head. She could feel her pulse between her legs. Where the hell was her electric toothbrush, the one she usually kept in the drawer with her condoms and self-heating lubricants?

Just then the local NPR reporter interrupted its programming with a weather bulletin. There was a blizzard warning in effect for all of the surrounding counties.

Fuck it. Cameron shrugged off her duvet and slid naked from between the sheets. She padded over to the window and looked out. Snow fell in thick flakes, and she could see that several inches had already accumulated.

Once again her thoughts turned toward House. When she'd left work at 8 p.m., he'd still been at his desk. For a guy who usually left dust in his wake as the clock struck 4 p.m., this was unusual. Unless he had a date with a hooker, it struck Cameron as suspect. She had left him reclining in his chair, using his desk as a drum set, presumably accompanying whatever was playing on his ipod.

What the hell, she thought. It was nearly four a.m., and she'd left her notes for her paper on the recent case of the plague the team had diagnosed back at the office. Sleep was a stranger, and a snow day seemed imminent. She might as well drive in to work while she still could.


	2. House Call

**Disclaimer: I own a house. I own "House" on dvd. I like the movie, "My Life as a House." But as for the show and its characters, they belong to FOX.**

**A/N: This chapter follows "Sleepless." Cameron's insomnia (and the inability to get House out of her mind) drive her to brave a blizzard to get to work. It's perfect timing for House, who needs a partner in crime. Cameron's along for the ride. I'm still new to writing in this genre. I appreciate reviews, and try to read and review the works of everyone who _reviews_ my work. I like specific comments and _constructive_ criticism -- what works and what doesn't. Thanks to all who have reviewed the story, and especially to my beta, Timbereads. Also, thanks to Houseketeer for raising the bar for all who attempt to write House and Cameron fics. **

**Please note that this fiction aims to eventually change its rating to M. I don't think I'm quite there yet, but if you disagree, kindly let me know. And bear with me as I attempt to write smut for the first time. I don't want it to get in the way of the romance.  
**

Clad in jeans, with a lacy camisole peeking out from under a creamy silk shirt, Cameron clicks in ankle high boots toward the office. Before she gets there, she pauses long enough to shake snow from her hair and draw its brownish red strands into a ponytail.

She hears House before she sees him.

The clack of his cane in the corridor precedes him. The instant he sees her, he speaks.

"Cameron. I need you."

Not, why are you here so early? Not, how about that snowstorm? Pleasantries and small talk are lost on House.

Her whole body flushes. She's not sure if it's what he has said, or simply the sound of his voice that makes her feel as if his hands are moving all over her skin. How would it feel to be touched by him? Sometimes she thinks that his voice is a caress, sometimes a fuck, depending on his tone and her needs. Either way, House's words are like palm prints on her body. His voice is all she has.

He _needs_ her? To do _what_? It's 4:30 in the morning. She decides to play along. No matter what her body's reaction to the man, she's slaphappy to see his scruffy self. He looks good in his leather jacket and a t-shirt displaying the graphics and title of Steely Dan's "Can't Buy a Thrill."

"You want me, too, House. But 'there ain't no way you're ever gonna love me. Two out of three ain't bad,'" she warbles.

House plugs his ears at her tone deaf rendition of Meatloaf. "I don't _want_ you. One out of three sucks. Come on. Grab your coat."

"It's in the car. And by the way, you lie. You want me." She wishes she had her lab coat on. It's always easier for her to _play House _when she looks like a professional.

"I think we've established that, smartypants. _You_ were on to me from the _start_, like when I told you I didn't _like_ you, and you didn't believe me." House leans on his cane with both hands, looks down at her with eyes narrowed a fraction.

It's hard to pick up on House's frame of mind this morning. He's slightly snarky, but there's something she's missing. She folds her arms and steps so close to House she has to tilt her chin up to meet the blue pools of his eyes. In them she sees pain, and behind the pain, something else. She glimpses love, hope, desire, kindness.

He looks away, and all of it is gone.

She keeps it light.

"I could tell you just _how much_ you want me, and in what ways, and then --."

"That would be...titillating. I'll take a rain check. Hold those thoughts. But, for now, stop talking and start walking."

House sets off toward the elevator at a pace that for him is close to a jog. She scurries to keep up in her heels. Click click to the clack clack of his cane.

"Where are we going? We don't even have a patient. Do we?"

"I don't pay you to ask questions."

"Yes, you do."

"Okay...," House draws out the word. "We're making a _House_ call." He offers her a faux grin at his own lame pun.

"This can't wait for Foreman and Chase?" Please, God, say no, she thinks.

House whips around so fast that Cameron walks into his chest. He reaches out to steady her. "I thought you'd jump at the chance to be alone with me. Or at least to jump me," he says. A hint of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, then vanishes.

She's only thrown against him for a moment. It's long enough. He's a drug that she's free-based and the effects are immediate, potent.

Like the sound of his voice, the smell of him envelopes her, inflames her. It's like having hives of desire, she thinks, inanely. She inhales him, her face pressed against the faded cotton of the shirt. His scent is leathery.

The last time she was this close to House was when she sat behind him on his bike, her crotch snug against his back, her arms around his chest. She is caught by the memory of the motorcycle throbbing between her legs -- the way she came to the beat of the bike's vibrations emanating from below. How the friction of her mound rubbing against him flooded her with waves of pleasure. It had taken all her will power not to slip her hands under his jacket and stroke his nipples with her fingertips, or to locate the waistline of his jeans, and slide her fingers down to see if he was as hard as she was wet.

House never even knew.

He pushes her away, gently, then grasps her arm with his free hand to speed her along. "We don't have time to wait for Foreskin and Chucklehead."

Not for the first time, Cameron wonders what insulting and irreverent names House calls her when she isn't around.

"House, I need to know where we're going. The visibility getting here was dicey, and there's a blizzard warning in effect."

The two doctors step out into the subzero predawn. Cameron notes that a few inches of snow have fallen since she arrived at the hospital. Clingy, wet flakes mixed with arrow-sharp sleet torpedo their faces, and she flings up a hand to protect her eyes.

"It's not a warning. It's a reality," House observes dryly, as painful slivers of snow and sleet assault them. "You drive."

He hands her a set of keys adorned with a Monster Truck key chain emblem. She looks at the key chain, astonished, touched. She had given it to him when he took her to the Monster Truck rally as Wilson's proxy.

"Why me? I drive like a girl, you know."

"Because, Little Miss Inquisitive, I may have a wee bit of morphine in my system, and, believe it or not, I don't want you to die."

That begs the question, she thinks, does he want to live?

"First LSD, and now you're shooting yourself up with _morphine_? Jeez, House. All the cool rockers your age have graduated from rehab. Why don't you skip the drugs and stick with sex and rock'n'roll." It occurs to Cameron that without Chase and Foreman to pick up the slack, she has found herself with more of an arsenal of snark that she knew she possessed.

House humors her. "Come on. We have to find my car."

"It's a good thing you park in the handicapped spot," she says.

He grabs her wrist and they feel their way over to his ride. Once they get there, he says: "Pop the trunk." She complies. He reaches in, hands her what looks a little like a life preserver. "Put that on."

"House. What is this?"

"One Kevlar vest. Hope it fits. Where we're headed, we might need it." House gets in the passenger side.

"I thought you said you _didn't_ want me to die," she says.

"I said it and I meant it...trust me."

Cameron is silent.

"Okay. Don't trust me. You should probably make that your mantra. And, I should know better than to ask you this, but --." House exhales. "You wouldn't happen to have a gun in your car, would you?"

It dawns on her then. What this is about.

"You found Moriarty."

House has never claimed to have the slightest interest in the man who shot him, as far as Cameron knows, but that didn't stop Wilson and Cuddy from sneaking a look at the police report. Wilson had told Cameron the man's name, but not much else. Apparently, she thinks, House has been sleuthing. If he starts to play the violin and shoot up opium, she'll start to call him Holmes instead of House.

The car is quiet. Cameron turns the key in the ignition, and switches the heater and the defrost up as high as they will go. She cleans the windshields by turning on the wipers, turning them off.

"Cameron," House finally begins. "Don't worry. He won't be there. But we've got to go now. It's about his wife. Look. Can you just drive?"

"I thought his wife died, House."

"So did he." House looks out the window, although all he can see is the hypnotic siren of the snow. "So did he."


End file.
